Seven Month Siege
by Mabon reborn
Summary: a wacked out idea I had (i blame my muse) chloe and lex must learn to turn to each other as past lives return to haunt them. Wierd, I know, but it makes so much sense after you read it!! don't forget to review


A/N: Definitely an inspired idea. But that, considering my zany muse does not necessarily spell good thing. But, as you all know, the muse commands, and so shall I write. Love it, hate it, just simply do not understand, review. Basically, I'm switching from five view points, Lex, and his past life, Alexander the great, Chloe, and her past life, the queen of the Phoenician throne, and me, the omnipresent narrarator. They'll switch back and forth, most likely whenever I feel like it. It may seem strange at first, but it'll all come together once I find a rhythm. *************  
  
An emperor at twenty, that's what Alexander the great was. A boy who played a man's game, and who won. But that was centuries ago, and there's a new Alexander to make a name for himself. Lost in his father's shadow, or simply using it for cover? Is it really a new Alexander, or a conqueror waiting to be reborn?  
  
************* Try as I might, I know that my father will always shun me and yet he will push me. I'll never be good enough, but when I am, and I have been, he acts shocked. Maybe it's because I finally show my true self. It's like; inside me are two people, the spoiled rich brat who walked into that fateful cornfield, always afraid of daddy, and of a man who bides his time, waiting to strike. Quick, and efficient. Before I turned twenty I was your average rich kid living off daddy's power and influence. I was always high, always pissing off the big boys, always needing help to get out of my problems. But then, at the age of twenty, something changed within me, something I can't really determine. Like a force or a presence, some part of me willed my body out of its drug induced stupor, through rehab, and nurtured my intelligence, my wit, and my cunning. It was as if I was honing my blade before the final battle, tuning myself to a perfect, killing edge.  
  
I began to believe I was more than what I was, a reformed junkie, instead of high on hash and meth, I carried on where my partying had left me unable to do anything but want. Aristotle became a teacher, Nietzsche a mentor, and my mother's words, the ones I had hidden in the back with the pain, slowly filtered through. Words of Napoleon, of great men and great deeds, and I began to re-examine my self. I could be a great man, do great deeds. I had the knowledge, that part of me said. I had the ability, it whispered. I tried to silence it. Change scared people like I was, people who need that stability, that routine, but as always, it pierced through, reasoning like a knife, change is not bad. He who sews the wind, reaps the storm. And so I go, acting as though this pity job my father gave me wasn't worthy of my disgust. But he never guessed that the boy he couldn't stand could grow to be his equal. And soon, so soon, his rival. I am filled with a need to strategize, to plan, to find and destroy, and strangest of all, to save, and protect. With this other self, you would think I would have enough, I wouldn't feel as though anything was missing, but there has always been since my mother was put to rest. I, the silent son, the sarcastic, cold friend, I Lex Luthor, miss love. And a part of me tells me I've always missed it, and that was why I needed so much from my mother. I brush it aside, I focus on what matters. My career, my life. As long as I work, I don't feel half empty, no, I feel numb, but I feel alive at the same time. Can I explain it? Not really. My life is a convoluted web of schemes and farces, facades and masks piled one on top of the other even I'm not so sure I can find m true face any more. At twenty one, rising in power and fame, I feel lost. So what do I do? I do what I need to, I conquer.  
  
My father, King Phillip of Macedonia, has been assassinated. As much as his cruel words tore and burned, I cannot but say he was remarkable, brilliant even, but he did not live long enough to prove his worth, and so I, Alexander, heir to the Macedonian crown, am left in a lair of wolves. I look around the coronation hall, and all I see are eyes, eyes who wish for me to fail, betting one another how long I'll live. All save two. One, my beloved mother, whose fire red hair is said to have been a gift from her serpent father, who came to her mother and at the time proclaimed to make her the oracle of the gods if he had a taste of her beauty. And so, hence my mother. My learned tutor, Aristotle, who for my title, has never once hesitated to scold or slap, but unlike my father, he has done it in love. They wish me to take a bride, cement my rule and leave an heir. They too, for all their care, do not believe. But I don't need them to, for I have myself to believe in me. And that is all I need. I walk into the cotillion with a confident swagger, gazing at each of my known enemies in turn. They will quickly be brought down.  
  
Chloe was generally what you saw. Snarky, smart, intelligent. But sometimes, all of what you see seems to build, seems to come together in a merging of insight and intuition where some other person seemed to step through and take command. Fear was only fear when you recognized it as that. For this other person, the pounding heart, the shallow breathes, the awareness of every sense and every muscle was not fear. It was exhilaration; it was what she lived for. Kama, the young but great Queen of the ten cities of the Phoenix lived for exhilaration also. She was a war general in Phoenicia where women fought side by side with their men; she was headstrong, but not foolhardy. Her people claimed her to be blessed by the great goddess Astarte, her beauty rivalled only by her cunning and intelligence.  
  
I, Kama, had, at the tender age of sixteen, have already been ruler of the merchant sea-faring kingdom of Phoenicia for two years. At the age of fourteen, coming home with my beloved father, King Paltrucius, from honouring a trade agreement with the Second city, Zarephath, we were over- run by the war-mongering Persians, thieves and warriors, all, who bombarded our caravan. My eldest brother Arath took my hand and rode us away from the chaos at the word of my brave and noble father. He died that day. He did not die defending himself, but his caravan master, a poor man who had not a sword on his person. You can see what a man he was. Arath and I arrived back home in the First City, Tyre, and immediately the Persian Emperor, I will not allow him the grace to have his dishonourable name touch my mouth, had sent Arath an ultimatum. Forfeited the crown and the kingdom to Persia and no blood shall be spilt. My brothers, Arath, Sophrates, and I sent him this as a reply; The very oceans shall turn to the driest dust before we shall forfeit our kingdom into the hands of an assassin who promises no blood to be spilt when he writes with hands red with it. We shall stand. The Persians started to close in on our wealthy kingdom. Arath, Eldest son, went with his generals to hold them and push them back. Unfortunately, Persians do not wage war as is normal. They are blood thirsty. They may starve from lack of food, but seem to fatten on the carnage of the cities and towns burnt to rubble. My dear brother, Arath, was lost to Sophrates and me at the battle of Sidon, the Seventh City. Sophrates thought it best if he led the armies, though he and I were close in age, he was the younger, and father had always given me the same teaching as my brothers, on and off the battle field. I was by far the better where strategy was concerned. With luck and, I believe, nothing short of a small miracle, Phoenicia kept all of the Ten Cities of the Phoenix, though seven have still to pay tribute to Persia. Every year Persia tightens its grip on the Seven Cities, making them more Persian and less Phoenician, until I believe they are getting swallowed by a whale. Even with this endless turmoil, what shocks me most is my people still call Kama the Blessed queen, still join the militia and give their lives pledging themselves to me when I am only sixteen, and I have a sneaking suspicion that as a ruler, I am nothing more than a joke to most.  
  
I don't think many people understand what I'm going through. I haven't told anyone about my 'episodes' because I don't think I'm crazy. I know that generally, the crazy person is the last one to admit it, but I think it's different. I've lived in Smallville since I was in the seventh grade. I used to live in the bustling city of metropolis where it was an ordinary occurrence to find your car stolen or to be mugged. Now in Smallville, those things don't happen. In Smallville, it's normal to see a man or woman with superhuman abilities trying to kill you or steal your identity. Weird, definitely, but, as strange as it sounds, I've gotten used to it, and I actually feel something missing if I don't have a run in with some meteor mutated person trying to suck the life out of me. It may seem stupid, or crazy, but the closer I get to being killed, the more I find out about who I am. Not who I am as in, Chloe Helena Sullivan, no, but who this other force inside me is, who I become more and more each day. It all started a couple of weeks ago. It's not as if it's an invasion of me, more like a growing awareness of myself. What has been hidden suddenly emerging to life, taking hold, pushing me through more death-defying risks than I care to admit. Maybe that's why I'm drawn to investigative reporting, the fact that in the end, if I search hard enough, if I am intelligent enough, there is always a story, an answer to a question. Since the beginning of this year, my theories of meteors has become more persistent and proven truer with each passing week, and although I try to apply them to my own silent struggle, it doesn't seem to fit. My visions, like memories, come like premonitions, instead of showing the future though, they show a past. They started out as dreams, a wealthy Kingdom by the sea, a loving father, a palace, and me, a princess. But it wasn't me. I was young, twelve or thirteen. It all seemed too real. I never forgot a scene or word in the dreams, where most seemed to just fade away the moment after I'd awoken. Once, I'd had a vivid dream of being on the training arena, sparring with my brother Arath. I had nearly beaten him, when he brought the sharp edge down just as my own blunt blade neared his throat. It slashed my upper arm and I nearly dropped my blade. I did not cry though. It wasn't like me to cry. I woke up to a stinging throbbing pain in my tricep, and I thought I had bumped it hard in my sleep, and that was why it hurt so much, but I looked over and my mandarin orange duvet cover was stained dark with blood.  
  
I was so shocked I threw myself bodily out of my bed, staring at it wide eyed in horror. I realized then, that this wasn't just a dream. My arm was wet and itching, and when I looked over I saw what I really didn't want to. My arm was slashed, exactly where it had been in my dream. I walked silently into the bathroom, contemplating my new mystery, silently wondering when Scooby and the gang where going to roll up the drive-way in the mystery machine. Dabbing at the cut with those iodine swabs, the ones that sting, I found myself remembering that Arath hated to be beaten at anything, much less sword play, and by his little sister too. I spent a week troubling over it, reading and searching the net for anything I could find that would some how relate to my 'episodes'. One late night at the torch I was struck by a book I think Clark had left lying around, it was something to do with past lives, living on another planet and that sort of thing. Sci-Fi was generally Clark's bag and not mine, I go for gothic fiction mostly, but then a thought came to me, what if what I was experiencing had something to do with a past life? What if I was suddenly maturing enough to behold the graphic nature of my previous life, and even then it was only coming in snippets, along with a few more gouges and bruises. It was taking too long to see everything. I started wishing it would just happen and I'd see all of it, instead of zoning in class, and Clark making very unfunny jokes about me living on another planet, which frankly were not funny, but he seemed to get a kick out of them. Generally, I would have spent my time finding more about the mystery that is Clark Kent, sweet farm boy, but still mysterious and strangely mature, even with his idiotic messiah complex. But I had my own mystery to worry about, one that was beginning to flunk me out of algebra. 


End file.
